


Quiritation

by Musyc



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Community: hp_darkfest, Darkfic, Death, Draco Malfoy - character, F/M, Hermione Granger - character, Rape, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-05
Updated: 2011-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-14 10:37:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Musyc/pseuds/Musyc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I wanted to hear her screaming again.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiritation

I wanted to hear her screaming again.

On the floor of the drawing room, with my mad aunt standing over her, cackling and spitting, she writhed. She screamed. Her back bowed and her heels drummed the floor. Her hands clawed at the thick carpet until her nails crumpled and peeled away in layers. Her hair tangled into knots, her clothing darkened with sweat and piss and blood, and she screamed until her voice went raw. I heard in her voice the same sounds of the rabbit my eagle owl had caught the day before, heard the high terror and shattering pain, the primitive animal scream. It beat against my ears like thunder, roared through my blood like flames. It was the scream of a soul in anguish, of a soul locked in the bitterest winters of hell, of a soul torn asunder and scattered to the farthest ends of the universe.

It was beautiful.

Every shriek made my heart race; every scream made my blood thrum. She sucked in air with a rattling whistle, expelled it on a screeching call. It rolled and echoed through the room, dancing along the frescoed ceiling, sweeping over the purple walls, floating down the marble hearth. It wrapped around me, swaddled me in thick velvet, caressed my skin like warm silk. It took my spine in an iron grip, grasped my nerves in a steel fist. The bones in my skull throbbed, the muscles in my legs tensed, and the blood in my cock heated. I watched her groan and twist under the flaying torture of the Cruciatus, and I grabbed the fireplace mantle to stop my hands from diving under my robes.

She rolled, one quivering hand stretched out. She reached for me and lifted her head. My name drooled from her mouth in a stream of blood and saliva, dripped from her eyes in clear and sparkling tears. She cried my name in a rending scream. She pleaded, she entreated, she implored. She begged me to help her, to stop all her pain, but I watched her with hungry fire in my eyes. Bellatrix hit her with another curse, she writhed on the carpet and screamed, and I clung to the mantle as my body pulsed. My skin heated and prickled, my blood roared, and my cock throbbed and jumped. Hermione screamed, and I came.

The rest of it was a blur – the fight, the escape, the crash of the chandelier and the blood on my face and in my eyes. I barely felt it, hardly heard it. My master arrived in a swirl of smoke and anger, and even the punishments he doled out fled from my mind like birds before a storm. Nothing existed for me except the sight of her body, twisting in anguish. Nothing was real except the broken song of her voice.

I wanted to hear her screaming again.

Nothing mattered after that. Nothing. Who won the war, who lost the war. Who lived, who died. As long as she survived, as long as I survived, it was no matter what else happened. I kept track of her after the end, though it was hardly necessary to do. The papers and the gossip did it for me. A plain but ambitious girl had become a heroine, covered in glory and praise. Her thick hair and thin smile were in the newspaper with such frequency I could count my heartbeats in her appearances. I kept track of her, all the while waiting, planning, practicing. My skills, so weak and useless before, grew honed over the ensuing months, and the grounds of my estate looked like the home of a winter god with the scattered feathers of the peafowl drifting over the landscape as blood-tinged snow.

Months of planning, months of preparation. My focus was absolute, my concentration was keen. The ebb and flow of my family's status passed unheeded. My friends, the few remaining who had not abandoned my alliance, drifted from me. My mother's voice was the last spark on a snuffed candle; my father's words were no more than smoke. None of it mattered when I had my desires in my grasp, when I had her screams in my reach.

This time there would be no weeping in shadowed corners, no huddling over cracked sinks. No wringing of hands bloodied and raw from pawing at a wretched, broken cabinet. No joints aching and swollen from nights spent pacing over cold and silent stones. This time, my task was given by me, to me, and this time, I would find a victory to brighten my soul and fire my blood.

This time, I would find glory. This time, I would fuel my desires. This time, I would have all that I wanted.

I wanted to hear her screaming again.

I knew I would have to select the perfect moment; I knew I would get only one chance. The serpent, the viper, waits until he is sure of his prey, then strikes with venomed fangs. I waited, watching her, and I waited, wanting her, and then—

 _Then_.

The right moment. The perfect chance. I knew it would come, were I but patient. I knew I would be rewarded for my months of practice and planning. I knew, this time, I would not fail.

It came under a night sky empty of stars. I watched her passing along the street, my wand gripped tight in cold fingers, my blood rushing hot beneath my skin. Her footsteps echoed the beat of my pulse, and at last I saw my chance.

I saw it. I took it. I struck. She fell in silence, lay quivering at my feet. I gathered her into my arms and brushed my lips against the corner of her eye. She trembled in my arms, her hair brushing my throat like dark feathers, her pulse beating wild in her slender neck. So fragile, so delicate, but I had seen her strength. She looked as drab and dull as a sparrow but I knew she screamed like a falcon. I murmured the charm that would hood her eyes and turned on my heel, my waiting at an end.

The room was built on a memory. The particular shade of the purple walls, the exact angle of the marble hearth, the precise feel of the carpet. Everything, down to the last detail, was as perfectly represented in my creation as it was in my mind. I made only one change, a crucial change. I would not lay her on the floor to writhe and scream in her anguish. I laid her on a bed with silver linens and feather pillows, with a steel frame and iron chains.

The chains became her jesses; the bed became her mews. Taken from freedom into captivity, she struggled with the dawning realization of her new ownership. I held on against the sweep of her arms, held on against the kick of her legs, and I clipped my falcon's wings. She lay in the center of the bed, arms and legs chained to the four corners, breast heaving, eyes glittering. She snapped at me when I reached to stroke her brow and I struck her. One blow across one cheek, one across the other.

Her mouth opened with a gasp, her eyes brimmed with tears. But she did not cry out. She did not scream.

I wanted to hear her screaming again.

I was not deluded enough to call what I did next by any name other than what it was. Some of my former associates, shrouded in their black robes and disguised by their silver masks, would hide their actions behind coy and teasing names. Seduction, ravishment, debauchery, fornication. I shook my head at it even as I flicked my wand and stripped her of her clothes, revealing her pale golden flesh and the light down on her arms and thighs. There was no need to call it by any other name. Rape. I knew full well she would not, did not consent, and I cared not a whit. As the falcon spreads her wings and screams through the sky at the command of the falconer, so she would spread her legs and scream for me. She was in my chains, she was under my command, and I would take from her what I pleased.

She held silent, lay still, only her fingers twitching against her chains and her pulse fluttering in her throat. Perhaps she prayed that I would not follow through on what must have seemed inevitable as soon as I exposed her nakedness; perhaps she still thought of me as the coward, the weakling, the wretch I had been the last time she saw me. Perhaps she thought I would not be capable, as I had not been capable of so much before.

She whimpered and shut her eyes when I shrugged my robes to the floor. A fool might have demanded she put some effort into it, demanded the use of her mouth, her moving tongue. I considered it, thinking the humiliation might start those shining tears I craved, but I knew she would snap and bite. More importantly, it would stop her from making noise, and as much as I wanted her tears, I wanted something else more.

I wanted to hear her screaming again.

I stroked my cock as I watched her, cupped my bollocks, pulled back my foreskin, ran one finger over my glans and frenulum. I stroked and caressed and rubbed until my length was solid and heavy, until my cock stood at full erection, and I knelt between her thighs. I saw no point in being gentle with her, no point in pretending I cared for her comfort. With the plans I had labored over for weeks upon weeks, the assault on her cunt would be the least of her pains.

I spat into my palm and added the gob of saliva to the thin stream of fluid beading on the head of my cock, and used that to slick my skin. Without further preamble or hesitation, I prised her labia apart and shoved into her. She bucked, but the chains held her fast. Her breath left her in a whistle, a high-pitched exhalation of pain and shock. Not enough for me, though. No shriek, no scream, no broken song in her voice.

I drove into her, her body gripping tight and dry. A thrust, another, another, then she trembled and I felt her flesh split around me. The abrasion of my thrusts stretched her delicate skin beyond its holding point, and it pulled apart, blood slicking her channel and easing my passage. Each drive forced a whimper from between her gritted teeth, each thrust forced tears from beneath her compressed lids.

Her sounds were small and quiet, overwhelmed by the slap of my bollocks against her body, the sticky slide of my cock in her bloody cunt. I grimaced and swore, my erection softening. "Hermione," I said, going still. "Hermione look at me."

She turned her head away, kept her eyes closed tight. _No_ , I decided. She would not refuse my command. I drew out of her, my limp cock painted in scarlet, and sat back on my heels. I took up my wand, pointed it at her face, and forced her head upright. "You _will_ look at me," I told her, and I cast the first of the spells I had practiced and perfected over months.

 _Ignis_.

She howled as her eyelids burned free, screamed as they vanished into smoke. She screamed and writhed in her bonds, and my cock hardened so quickly I gasped. Her dark brown eyes, glimmering under a sheen of tears, locked on the ceiling as I drove back into her. Blood pooled in the corners of her eyes, blood dripped across her cheekbones, blood slicked her cunt. It filled my cock and heated my body, and I drove into her hard. Now she shrieked. She screamed and jerked with every thrust, yanking at her chains, bucking beneath me, and all the while she screamed.

I laughed as I raped her. Laughed with the joy and ecstasy wrapping around my spine, roiling in my gut. There was the sound I desired, that was the sound I craved. She screamed in pain and fear and denial, and I raped her and I laughed. Buried deep in her, with the knobbed circlet of her womb's entrance jamming against my cock with every thrust, I gloried in it. My head pounded, my blood roared. I exulted in her shrieks, in her blood, in her anguish, and I filled her cunt with hot, sticky strings of come.

I pulled free of her and watched our mingled fluids leak from her body, watched as come and blood puddled beneath her arse, soaking into the silver linens. I slid two fingers into her and scraped out the rest, nails dragging over damaged flesh. I moved off the bed and painted her lips, her heart, her nipples, with the thick, bloody flux. Her sobs and cries had faded, and she lay shaking. Her body only trembled at my touch, her lidless eyes fixed on the empty air.

I wanted to hear her screaming again.

I pulled on my robes, leaving them loose on my shoulders and open around my body, and took up my wand. I severed her nipples from her breasts that she could not scream from the pleasure of having them licked. I excised her clitoris from her cunt that she could not scream from the arousal of having it sucked.

I removed my signet ring from my hand and floated it above her face, heated the metal to blinding, white with internal fire. I pressed it to her throat and seared her flesh, so that every scream would bear my mark.

 _Crucio_.

She writhed and arched on the bed, her chains cutting into her wrists and ankles. Blood poured from the skin torn by her struggles, blood oozed from her pores with her sweaty fight. Her throat distended as she screamed, her bleeding breasts heaved and swayed as she cried.

 _Crucio_.

She screamed when blood ran from her nose and bubbled in a froth from her lips. She screamed when she pulled so fiercely at her chains that she dislocated her wrists. She screamed when her misfiring nerves shook her body like a turbulent storm.

 _Crucio_.

She bowed up from the bed, heels and head the only points touching the now-crimson linens. She screamed in pain, she screamed in protest, she screamed in pleading. I wrapped my free hand around my cock and gave one long stroke for every scream.

 _Crucio_.

She begged and implored me to stop, she wept and howled my name. _Crucio_. She tore her hands free of her chains, small bones shattering from the force. _Crucio_. She rolled and twisted and writhed, and the room filled with the sweet, clear song of her voice. It filled my soul with sun and fire, filled my cock with blood and heat.

 _Crucio_.

She screamed until no words could come from her throat, until there was nothing in her voice but pure and glorious sound. I stroked my cock once. _Crucio_. Twice. _Crucio_. Thrice. _Crucio_.

She screamed for me as I came. I spread my seed across her belly and breasts, painting her skin with a pearl-white sheen that turned to pink in seconds. I stood over her, panting, proud, pleased with my work. Her voice broke and faded as I shook the last droplets into her mouth, and as I watched, the gleam faded from her bulging eyes.

 _Crucio_.

Nothing.

No sound, no movement. No scream. I cocked my head and examined her. Her breath was dormant, her body inert. She lay quiescent and cold, her throat slack. Her pulse fluttered, erratic, wild. As I watched, it stilled. The flow of blood from her wounds ebbed and halted. The room fell silent.

Too silent.

I shook my head, the ecstasy in my soul withering as I stared at her unmoving form. No. No, this would not do. I was not done. I raised my wand in my right hand and took my cock in my left. A flick of the wrist, a squeeze of the fingers.

 _Inferus_.

I wanted to hear her screaming again.


End file.
